Villainy Abounding

At least 2 or 3 times a day, a putrid attempt at self-expression comes a-bump-bump-thumping down from the overhead speakers at work and bombards my ears with auditory sewage. The likes of Jay-Z and Fat Joe hijack my psyche and come "pimp strolling" their way into my head, "gats" and mouths a-blazin', filling my mind with images of illiterate men slapping women across the face with stacks of unearned "Benjamins" while the women pour the over priced alcohol of the week down their scantily clad bodies.  And believe me... the wet, half-naked women from hip-hop videos and Mrs. Herschberger, the 83 year old hemorrhoid plagued widow with spina bifida who desperately needs me to demonstrate for her how to apply her bum cream, do not mix.  Oh well, I guess I'll just have to deal with it while I work on my master plan...

First step: rant. (Check.)

Second step: devise plan to undermine and completely obliterate "gangsta rap" as the world knows it.

Third step: carry out ingenious plan.

Fourth step: take dance lessons.

Fifth step: dance on the ashes of my fallen foe (who, I believe, was basically the moral black plague of my generation's existence). 





Feel free to visit the following link/join the good fight...
http://www.mtv.com/bands/h/hip_hop_week/2005/greatest_albums_0505/

(Author's note: all hemorrhoid plagued characters mentioned above were of fictitious origin.) 

I Want My Sandwich Back...

I am disheartened, and somehow slightly honored, to announce that I now have an inkling as to what it feels like to be Harry Potter in Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. Like Harry, I too have been hijacked. I, too, am contaminated. I, too, share my body with a disgusting filth that must not be named. Okay, it actually can, and has, been named. I'm speaking of the villain called Cryptosporidium, and while it may not be as immediately terrifying as Lord Voldemort, it is definitely menacing in its own way. Yes, it is my privilege and my duty to announce the danger that befell me a few days ago; the danger that prowls the public swimming pool near you; the danger that lurks just inside the next drinking fountain you plan on taking a cool, refreshing sip from.

I hope, by this time, that anyone who reads this blog is beginning to get as outraged as I am with the thought of a freeloading bum like Cryptosporidium hitching an unrecompensed ride in a person's small intestine. I know Elliot (from Scrubs) thinks that getting a parasite is "totally awesome," but I have to disagree. I think everyone should recognize them for the scoundrels they are. Sure, thanks to my protozoan roomie, I might lose a few much needed pounds off my lovehandles, but that's beside the point. The fact of the matter is that if I can dibs something by licking my finger and touching it, then actually putting it in my mouth, chewing it, swallowing it, and digesting it should be just as good, dang it.

And another thing... Cliches became cliches because they're universally true. Everyone knows that. So, why does Cryptosporidium think it's so special that "there's no such thing as a free lunch" doesn't pertain to it? I mean, I personally designed that sandwich... I personally told the "Subway Sandwich Artist" the secret to just enough mayo and mustard... and I personally took the gamble on the red onions. Oh yeah, and I PAID FOR IT!

So, I guess that's it.

(This next part is directed at Cryptosporidium. Anyone else may read on at his or her own discretion.)

I am now openly declaring war on you, Cryptosporidium. If you want a handout, go to Canada. If not, chow down on my next meal. It's my very own special cocktail... I concocted it just for you. I'll even share the secret ingredients: 2 parts nitazoxanide tablets, 5 parts absolute, concentrated hate, and 2 parts promethazine (just to take the edge off).  And don't forget the side order of CD4 white blood cells. That's right, I'm coming for you, Mother Hubbard. And, oh yeah... I want that sandwich back.

Bethinking Boyhood

When I was young, I often daydreamed about coming of age and partaking in all of the corresponding activities that being a fully fledged "big boy" implied. Now that I think back, though, I find that my old reveries were never very representative of anything that even resembled adult life. I used to think that being a "grown up" equated to exploring the heavens in a space ship, righting man's greatest injustices with the use of my personally construced time machine, and defeating Draco the Dragon King with the help of Captain America's shield and Inigo Montoya's six fingered sword. All of this, of course, was done without mother's permission and in the span of one weekend, which, only in my wildest fantasies ever included Sunday, since Sundays were always reserved for the double whammy of little boy blight: homework and baths. If you're thinking, "Jesse... that's ridiculous... there's nothing grown up about those daydreams," I now redirect you back to two important points: the fact that I was acting without my mother's accord, and the fact that I was playing on a Sunday. That, I was certain at the time, was what being an adult meant.

It turns out, however, that the real adulthood is extremely dissimilar from the one I had crafted in my mind's eye those many years ago. I have reluctantly come to find that adulthood encapsulates much more than simply being the leader of the free Sunday world and enjoying autonomy from mommy-dearest. Instead of timeline conquests and dragon slayings, growing up has entailed the likes of finding summer jobs, doing taxes, and rotating the whites. Because of reality's failure to live up to my childhood standards, something I never considered possible is taking place quite often. Now, instead of fully focusing on my condensed calculus class and washing my car, I find myself daydreaming of being a little boy again. It doesn't take much to throw my mind into a rampant flashback of old adventures with my trusty wooden sword and shield. Interesting cloud formations, the smell of dirt and pine, and even the simple sound of the ice cream truck approaching... all of these things send me back.

I have recently considered the irony of the situation: a boy daydreaming of the freedoms of being a young man... a young man daydreaming of the unburdened life that used to be his. Of course, I would much rather be 23 than 8, and I'd never give up my wife and all of the other countless blessings and responsibilities that I've been fortunate enough to ascertain, but I can't deny how much my childhood memories mean to me. I think I'm pretty lucky to be able to dig to the bottom of my mind's toy box, pick up an old memory, dust it off, and smile with fondness in my heart and soul. I think I'm even luckier because these nostalgic happy-hauntings seem to occur rather frequently. Becca just says I might have A.D.D. She's probably right, too; she's a genius. Anyway- whatever the case may be, I've made one life or death decision as of the late: I need another wooden sword.

Assimilation

I am sad to announce that this is the first of what is inevitably many blog entries. It seems 2004 has finally caught up with me. My futile attempts to fight "Blog Nation" have finally ceased. I have been overpowered. I have been defeated.
Anyway- it's nice to be here, in a way. I feel like I've been plugged into the matrix. I now have the ability to share my most intimate and sincere thoughts and concerns with the likes of Dong-Sun, my South Korean stalker. HOORAH!!!